Futile
by TheVerbalThing ComesAndGoes
Summary: She's always felt temporary. A Lindsay centric one-shot


Futile - incapable of producing any result; ineffective; useless.

Setting: during and after _A Messenger, Nothing More_

Summary: She's always felt so temporary. AU. A Lindsay centric one-shot

**A/N**: Because I seriously doubt Dean would have ever told Lindsay about sleeping with Rory if Lindsay hadn't found the letter. So, this is a 'what-if' of sorts.

* * *

The apartment smells of smoke and failure.

Lindsay fruitlessly uses a fork to turn over the charred remains of the ruined pot roast in the now useless baking pan.

She'd been assured three times over that it's nearly impossible to burn pot roast, but the butcher on Cherry Street must have never come into contact with Lindsay's particular brand of culinary skills.

She sighs, resolute and discouraged, and covers up the pathetic remnants of a meal that would never be theirs to enjoy and moves dejectedly across the room to open a window. She doesn't think she's ever had to try this hard, not for anything. Getting married changed that. Being around Dean and with him is hardly ever easy and she's starting to wonder if that means something.

She glances at the clock as she ties up the garbage bag. It's 6:30; Dean should be home soon.

Lindsay spends her day playing out the role of the dutiful housewife, making their one bedroom/unfinished bath feel cozy. She tells herself that this is what she's always dreamed of, building a home with her husband, the love of her life, trying to believe in the possibility of their forever (_but she isn't sure how that's possible, when she's always felt so temporary._)

* * *

The letter is burning a hole in his pocket, wearing down his mind like a steel ship anchor. Three pages, front and back; its light blue ink smudged by his fingertips. It's been folded and unfolded nearly five hundred times, and is practically falling apart at the creases. He has it memorized by now.

He's always aware of its presence, never leaves without making sure he has it in his possession (_mostly, though, he's just afraid of having everything around him fall apart._)

Rory's given up, told him to move on and get over her (_he's convinced himself that this is impossible_); Lindsay thinks he already has, she believes that Dean let that part of his life go the moment he gave her his well worn hockey jersey to keep.

Dean slides his hands into his coat pocket, brushing his fingers against the crumpled paper. (_Rory should be home by now_.)

He's startled by the buzzing of his cell phone. Guiltily, he realizes that it's Lindsay, probably calling to wish him a good day at work. (_It's been a while, though, since she brought his lunch to him. He feels even guiltier that he doesn't completely miss those days._)

"Hey," he answers. He tries to sound cheerful (_for her sake_) but he's glad Lindsay can't see his face.

He doesn't think he can (_will_) ever tell her the truth.

(_God, he's such a coward._)

* * *

Lindsay feels the bed dip on the other side of her but, tonight, she's not up for pretending that he's woken her; she's been waiting up for him. She always does (_she just doesn't always want him to know that_). "Did I wake you?"

"No." Lindsay turns on her side to face him, but only results in having a conversation with his back. "I didn't know you had to work late tonight."

"Taylor needed someone who could reach the storage shelves."

"Oh." She should let it drop, should let this go. She doesn't want to fight with him anymore. She's not a fighter, and neither is he. "Well, why didn't you call me?"

"Phone died," he responds curtly, shortly.

It's hard for her to believe that line so easily, because she knows how concerned he is with missing a phone call. She opens her mouth to question it when she hears him sigh, sounding so tired, so defeated, and suddenly she feels like she's failed him in some way.

She bites down on her tongue, ignoring the pain and swallowing back the tears.

"Night." He kisses her cheek without acknowledging any of its wetness, turning out the bedside lamp and shrouding her in darkness. Dean sticks to his side of the bed, barely moving, and she feels cold, alone, and forgotten.

"Goodnight," Lindsay whispers back.

* * *

They're fighting again. She can't remember why this time.

She's making spaghetti, the only meal she's ever completed successfully. He adds something to the sauce, oregano or some other insignificant spice, because that's what his mother added to _her _sauce, and it sets Lindsay off. She's surprised and nearly frightened by the amount of anger she suddenly (_or maybe not so suddenly_) feels toward him.

"You never appreciate _any_thing I do!"

"You expect everything to just be perfect! _Marriage_ isn't perfect, Lindsay!"

"You think I don't know that? I knew_ that _the moment we moved in here! I feel like I'm here by myself, all the time!"

"Oh, here we go-"

The fight stalls when she isn't paying attention and burns her finger on the stove. Lindsay locks herself in the bathroom, swiping away hot tears and running her finger under cool water. Dean doesn't come after her and she wishes she wasn't holding onto the hope that he'll come knocking on the door to see if she's alright. Lindsay leans against the sink staring at her injured finger, angry red in color. It doesn't sting all that much and she won't even get a blister but suddenly Lindsay is seized by the overwhelming need to burst into tears. She gives in, for the first time in the year that they've been married.

A considerable amount of time has passed when she comes out to find Dean asleep on the couch. A preemptive move on his part.

"Dean?" She steps closer. He doesn't move.

"Yeah."

"Did I wake you?"

"No. …I can't sleep."

She should ask why, but Lindsay isn't entirely sure she wants to know the reason. She lays down next to him, resting her chin on his shoulder.

"How's your finger?" he asks, finally wrapping his arm around her.

"Fine."

For a quiet, tense moment they do nothing but listen to each other breathe.

"I wish we would stop fighting," he admits. (_He wishes he could forgive himself._)

"…Me too."

* * *

The morning after Paris retells the death of Asher Fleming, Rory deletes Dean's cell phone number. It's completely accidental; she's so flustered by the gall of Logan Huntzberger that Rory doesn't even realize what the hell she's doing until the number is gone.

For her sake (_and Dean's_) she won't try to get it back. She won't try to get _him _back. She needs to move forward, and let go of the security blanket formerly known as Dean Forrester. She is not his to protect or save anymore. And she doesn't love him the way she used to, and it wouldn't be fair, or right, to let him think otherwise. She needs to let go.

"Root beer?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Marty, for everything. You've been such a huge help tonight."

"For you, anything." He's fidgeting and she almost reaches out to rest her hands on top of his shoulders just to get him to stop. "Listen, I was wondering, do you…have a boyfriend or anything?"

"What?"

"It's just that—you don't seem interested in anyone here and you don't—you don't really mention anyone so I just thought…Never mind, I—"

"No."

"No?"

"I guess not. I mean, no, I don't have a boyfriend."

"Oh, okay. ...well do you wanna maybe catch a movie or something?"

"I... sure. Yes."

Rory forces a smile that soon becomes genuine, once she sees the relieved expression on Marty's face.

(_Maybe it will all get easier._)

* * *

"I'm sorry." He forces out the two words he should have told her back in May. Unfortunately, it fixes nothing. (_It changes everything._)

Her breath hitches, but he doesn't notice. (_She's not surprised._)

"For what?"

"I haven't been…I've just been really stressed lately and—I wanted to tell you…it's not your fault."

"It's okay, Dean, really…I understand." She doesn't really, but she knows she should; she's supposed to be understanding now, right? They're not in high school anymore. She's his wife; he's her husband.

She just doesn't want to fight anymore. She's _tired_ of fighting.

He clears his throat, forces himself to look her in the eyes when he says this. "I love you." (_He wants it to be the truth—maybe, he hopes, on some level, it is_.)

"Love you, too." (_Unfortunately, she means it._)

* * *

fin.


End file.
